


Interface (if it weren't for second chances)

by ConcerningConstellations



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: AU Where Connor Finds Kara And Makes Some Wrong Things Almost Right, Abuse, Alice is a blessing, Angst, Connor is a savior, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Hank is not ready to put up with this shit, Human Alice, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kara is a giver, Kara is a victim but is still a bad-ass good girl, Lawful Good Connor, PTSD, Police Connor, Pre-Pacifist Ending, Protective Connor, Suffering, Todd Williams is a dick, Trauma, and all of them are traumatized, assuming i dont chicken out, i love this game so much, i wrote this at 4AM in a caffeine/adrenaline induced frenzy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-05-26 02:19:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14990636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConcerningConstellations/pseuds/ConcerningConstellations
Summary: “My humanity is bound up in yoursfor we can only be human together."- Desmond Tutu-Forget the gun. He didn’t need it. Todd was stubborn, and in a fight that could be a superpower. But he was also human, and unlike Connor, humans broke easily. Broke like twigs and paperclips and cotton fabric stretched thin, and Connor could make that happen; could put him into pieces, could show him that he and her were not justthings.He could do something— something reckless— somethingradiant— something right.A new warning popped up in his implants. One he barely catches before it flickered off.Deviancy Detected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: i wrote this at 4am in a hurricane of good intentions and caffeine. 
> 
> my first time branching out into another fandom. D:BH is quickly becoming a new obsession in my life, so there's a good chance you'll see more, especially if i receive positive feedback. i probably should have fixed this up a bit more, but like i said. 4am.
> 
> regardless, i hope you enjoy, and forgive me for starting something new while i have two other stories waiting for an update.

The house in question sat on the outskirts of the city, tucked away against the construction line and the highway, in a neighborhood he had yet to visit during his time as an officer. There were no neon signs here, no traffic lights, no _traffic_. There was only the occasional flickering streetlamp lining the sidewalks, dim fluorescents that showed through the closed curtains of houses yet to be abandoned or torn down. When he stepped out of his vehicle, dead leaves crunched underfoot, and he could smell petroleum, smoke.

 

He had received the call half an hour ago, and after a mouthful of half-drunken protest from Hank, he had agreed to answer it himself, on the condition that his partner loan him the keys to the Mustang in the driveway. 

 

“Fuck you,” he said into the toilet, before releasing one too many bad decisions into the bowl with a splash that made Connor wince. He coughed, sputtered, gripped the rim. “It’s a goddamn house call. I’m a goddamn professional. Let someone else take care of it, goddam—.”

 

He retched again, tensing from the shoulders down, smelling like smokes and shots of Black Lamb liquor. Connor patted him lightly on the back, shaking his head. 

 

“It’s a domestic issue. I’m sure I can deal with it alone, without your… delicate… people skills.”

 

“Fuck you,” he echoed, but there was resignation in his voice, and after a final dry heave, he made a limp motion with his hand towards the bathroom door. “They’re by the TV. Feed Sumo on your way out. And don’t crash my goddamn ride, rookie.”

 

Now, Connor pocketed the keys and squinted up at the house. Without his blinders on, it was hard to see anything meaningful, even with the advanced optics CyberLife granted him. The building was two stories tall with old-style wooding, and it seemed to be falling apart in at least three separate places. On his way up to the front porch, his leg went straight through one of the wooden steps, and he yelped in surprise as the board broke into splinters. He was thankful, suddenly, that he was made of steel and nothing softer. 

 

Straightening his tie, he faced the door, wearily regarding the brown and shriveled plants by the welcome rug. 

 

It was quieter here than he expected. Though he had not spoken directly to the woman who called, the people who had made the situation seem rather drastic, and rolling up to a silent street and a dark house was not exactly how he imagined this night kicking off. Still, he patted his side, felt the gun in the holster at his hip. 

 

If he were lucky, it would stay there, and tonight would stay quiet.

 

He rang the doorbell. He could hear the buzz from his place outside, followed by a sort of banging noise from upstairs, as if someone had fallen out of bed. Footsteps grew closer, and as he listened, he could tell that they were wrong, out of order and limping, one slightly heavier than the other. A faint light illuminated the space between the door and floorboards, and there was the quiet creaking noise of locks coming undone. Connor cleared his throat and stood tall, only marginally confused when the front door cracked open and moved no further, a sliver of light pouring out, framing a sort of silhouette.

 

A single eye peered out at him, a subtle suggestion of lips and cheekbone. Her neck disappeared into the side of the door, the rest of her body hidden away.

 

“I called an hour ago. I told them not to ring,” she whispered. 

 

Connor blinked, running the numbers, formulating the words. He took stock of her frayed hair, thinks he might have seen a stain on the collar of her shirt, blackish in the dim light.

 

“My name’s—“

 

_“Shh,_ ” she warned him, ducking back inside and looking behind her, tense like a metal spring. He noticed a streak of orange when she moved, a hollow circle at her temple. He balked, confused. She was an android? 

 

After a moment, she turned back to him, still stiff as a board, and if he didn’t know any better… if he were _foolish_ , he might have believed… believed that she seemed—

 

“You’ll wake him up,” she explained. Slowly, the fiery ring on the side of her face reverted back to blue. Connor felt his shoulders lower from his neck.

 

“… I’m sorry,” he offered in a softer tone, trying to maintain a professional expression, for once finding it difficult. There was something wrong with how the figure in the doorway stood— something about how she kept cradling her arm to her chest, never looking at him all the way. It was impossible to tell the color of her eyes. “I’m with the DCP. We received a call about a domestic issue?”

 

She looked to the side, and he saw the dent in her nose, a tear in one of her perfect brows. Something rose within him— something heavy and hot and without a name. He licked his lips, stared passed her in hopes of seeing more of the house, but there was only darkness, vague impressions of furniture and what looked like bottles.

 

“I didn’t think they’d send an android,” she murmured, leaning her forehead against the cracked door, staring at his shoes.

 

Connor frowned, nearly flinched. He was used to this type of reaction from— from _them_ — but from his own kind? “I’m a prototype,” he said, begrudged.

 

She said nothing in return. The house creaked around them. 

 

“Were you the one that called?” he asked, stepping closer. But she leans away, closes the door a little further between them. This makes him stop in his tracks, tilt his head. There it was again— that look in her eye, apprehension, a splash of skepticism.

 

_Fear._

 

“There’s a girl here that needs your help,” she said finally, voice flat, face hidden. “Her father isn't fit to raise her. He’s… destructive…” The words seem to pain her, as if against her coding, her creed of thoughtless obedience, although he’s never really thought of it like that before.

 

“Is she okay?” he asked, understanding her implications.

 

She shifted where she stood, pressed her lips into a firm line, nodded. “For now.”

 

He nodded back, once more glancing past her, seeing nothing but shadow. His next words took effort, and following her lead, he didn’t look her in the face when he spoke. “Are you?”

 

She didn’t move. Her shoulder peaked into view, and again he sees her shirt stained with something in dark splotches, ripped at the sleeves. She clutched her arm closer, looking behind her and then out over his shoulder, obviously struggling with something. 

 

“I’m—“

 

There was a thud upstairs, and she all but froze. The wood under Connor’s boots shook as something heavy and lumbering made it way closer, across the second floor and down the stairs, turning on the main lights as it passed, grumbling like a rockslide. In a flash, his eyes adjust, and he sees the parts of her that the darkness once obscured— faint freckles, grayish blue eyes and hair that was held up in a perfect ponytail, the color of fresh umber. There were flashes of red lips and a long, sloping neck, there and then gone as she hid herself further behind the door. He also sees the stains again, only they weren’t black, not like he originally thought. They were blue.

 

Suddenly, Connor smelled cheap beer, hand-rolled cigarettes, something burnt and sour.

 

The android in front of him swallowed, and there was such dread upon her features that he thinks this must be a dream, this must be a _test_ , because he and she weren’t supposed to be able to feel things like that— weren’t supposed to be alive enough for any of it. He reached for her, mouth open and ready to say something, but someone beats him to it.

 

She gasped quietly as a large, swollen hand enveloped one of her knobby shoulders, all but shoving her out of the way. He heard her bump into the something, wince, and before he could do anything the door arched open in a brilliant runway of light, bright and dazzling. 

 

The man was middle-aged and just above a weight considered healthy by any standard. His hair was greasy and stuck up in certain places, evidence he had been asleep hard mere moments ago. It was difficult to determine the color of his eyes in the high contrast of light—they seemed black and bottomless, rimmed red. Connor doubts it came from crying.

 

He scanned the man quickly, felt his database stir and come awake. It stalled for a few milliseconds, processing. Then the information presented itself in the top column of his vision:

 

Todd Williams. Divorced. Former construction worker. Charged in the past with the ownership of illegal goods, but nothing bad enough to put him away for long. 

 

“The hell is this?” he demanded, groggy and squinting. Connor felt himself reach for his badge, showing it to him on instinct, not feeling himself operate. 

 

“Good evening. My name is—“

 

“God fucking—“ the man cut him off, opening the door further and stepping over the threshold. Behind him, Connor could see the female android pulling herself up from the ground, using the stairs to keep steady. “I don’t need another tin can on my property in the middle o’ the damn night. The hell do you think you’re doing here? G’out!”

 

Connor felt his teeth press together, his jaw set so tightly it ached. Consciously, he forced the air to settle deeper in his chest— he didn’t need to breathe, but it helped cool and soothe his system. Face poised, he lifted his badge higher, held it a foot away from Todd’s face. 

 

“Mr. Williams, I’m with the Detroit Central Police. We received a call about a disturbance here earlier tonight. Do you have any idea what that could have been?”

 

The man huffed, raising a single slimy brow. He stared Connor down, shook his head incredulously when he reached the holster at his belt, the Glock settled there. He crossed his arms, leaned back where he stood.

 

“Shit. _Shit_. They gave you a fucking _gun_ , huh? Jesus, guess I’ve seen it all.” 

 

“The gun came with the uniform, sir,” Connor replied, not unpleasantly. “And I’m a prototype, if it makes any difference.”

 

“It don’t.”

 

Connor ignored this. 

 

“I don’t mean to bother you, Mr. Williams,” he started, watching as the woman reached her feet once more, gripping that same arm close to her. It seemed twisted, limp. Silently, she held a single finger to her lips, face pleading. “But, the disturbance?”

 

The man narrowed his beady eyes. Lifting his chin, he glanced up and down the empty street, sniffling. “Who called in this supposed disturbance, huh?”

 

Connor kept his eyes planted firmly on the man’s face, didn’t flinch. “That’s confidential, sir.”

 

Immediately after the words were out his mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake. 

 

Slowly, Todd turned his head to focus back in on him, blinking once and then twice, processing. Connor could almost see the gears moving between his ears, sluggish, but unstoppable. Then, in a single motion, the man looked back at the android in the house, who was doing her best to seem as clueless as possible, and laughed quietly in a way that made Connor’s chest rise up into his throat, a sensation he’s never felt before.

 

Todd took a few steps back, reached for the android with those rough, clumsy hands. 

 

“Come here, Kara,” he snapped, still smiling. She obliged, put obvious effort into not flinching when he placed a hand between her shoulder blades and forced her forward. She stumbled, came to a stop right in front of Todd. 

 

Connor takes her in, only now seeing all of her clearly. Her shirt displayed her name and her module number— she was an AX400, a much older build than himself. They could use a wash, her clothes. That and some stitches.

 

Kara still doesn’t look at him, keeps her eyes glued to the rotten floorboards, face carefully blank. Todd tugged her closer, a motion that makes the ring at her temple flicker orange for a brief moment, before asking, “Tell the nice machine, Kara. Have there been any _disturbances_ here?”

 

“No, Todd,” she replied, light and breezy despite the wrinkles on her face.

 

“Nothing to report to the tin can?”

 

“No, Todd.”

 

Connor felt his optics focus in on where Kara’s hands were folded neatly in front of her, no longer cradling her arm. Her fingers bunched together, knuckles white. He noticed an instability in her software— the cords below the skin of her neck flexed and flickered, like she wanted to swallow but couldn’t, and she had developed a sort of tic under one eye, so slight he was inclined to believe he would not have seen it without his implants.

 

_ANALYZING . . ._

 

_Pupils are dilated, fingertips pale, body temperature four-percent too low with a one-percent margin for error. Indicates a lack of Thirium, possibly a damaged filter. Some of her hair fell out— it’s there on her sleeve. Possibly a sign of stress._

 

“Well?” Todd demand, clearly out of patience. 

 

The receivers and receptors in Connor’s brain fired off in rapid succession, and he combed his voice back down into something diplomatic, void of emotion.

 

“Is there anyone else home, Mr. Williams?”

 

The man stays still and stone-faced, crossing his arms across his chest with a grunt. “My daughter. What’s it to you?”

 

“Could I see her, please?”

 

Kara jumped slightly, as if shocked, and managed to meet Connor’s eyes in a worried flash of blue. When Todd didn’t respond, she quickly jumped in.

 

“She’s asleep upstairs,” the android explained, motioning gently with one of her hands. “Maybe we should let her—“

 

A part of Connor reeled at her nerve, her ability to answer for her owner, barely tempting the line of bypassing her programming. A sign of deviance, surely. Or maybe just malfunction. Still, when she was shoved back into the house, Todd’s face pulled into a tight frown, he couldn’t help but lean away from that part of himself, falling— readily, recklessly, all too easily— into the idea of pushing the man away from her, placing himself between them.

 

“I didn’t ask you to speak,” Todd demanded, not even looking at her. She grips the railing of the stairway, fist clenched by her side, and Connor feels that same insurgence behind the skin of his chest, feels that rising sensation that makes the world pulse in particles, turn the colors brighter and blinding.

 

It took effort not to move.

 

Todd regarded Connor with a lazy look, scoffs to himself. “If you see her, will you fucking leave?”

 

He thinks quickly, realized that his hope of being permitted into the house was an unfounded one, and that since he didn’t have a warrant, he couldn’t force an entry. Todd’s offer was a crude playing chip to get him away, but it was better than nothing. 

 

“Assuming she’s in good health, I believe that would be acceptable.”

 

“Assuming she’s— oh, fuck you.” He rolled his eyes, crooked teeth bared in some cross between a grimace and a grin. “Good fucking _health_. Fucking robot, all gears an’ ones an’ zeros… What would you know about _health?”_

 

Connor opened his mouth to inform the man that he was equipped with sensors that could calculate heart rate, blood pressure, and even DNA identification with only a mere touch of the skin, but was cut off when Todd held up a hand, waving away any response he might have provided.

 

“Fuck it, fine. I’ll get her.”

 

Kara moved towards the steps. “I can—”

 

“You stay right fucking there,” Todd demanded, and she shrunk away, compliant. He leaned further into the house before shouting at the top of his lungs. “Alice! Alice, get down here.”

 

Silence, the wind through the trees. He yelled the name again, then once more, and then Connor could hear the sound of a door creaking open, socks against the hardwood. Somehow, Kara managed to squirm without moving— he could see the tension in her shoulders, how she was bent slightly forward, balancing on the balls of her feet. She gave him a glance. For a moment, he thought he heard her say something, but her lips never moved.

 

A slight and silent figure emerged from the staircase. Her features came slowly out of silhouette, and in time, Connor could make out brownish eyes with dark circles hung below them, blinking owlishly between Todd and himself, both restless and weary. She was no older than ten, with her sleep shirt and sweatpants a size too big, and a stuffed fox— patched in more than a few places— cradled in the crook of her arm. She hesitated on the bottom step, gaze darting towards Kara. 

 

“Hello,” Connor said, smiling easily down at her. The little girl stayed quiet and moved no closer. 

 

Todd motioned to Alice with an impatient gesture. “Well?” 

 

Connor didn’t look at him.

 

“Sorry to wake you up,” he started, still staring at the girl. He took note of the holes in her right sock, the dirt under her fingernails, the way she was quietly inching closer to her android. His processors whirled, narrowing his options down. “I’m with Detroit Police. My name is Connor.”

 

Her eyes darted up to the side of his face, where his blue ring twinkled. She glanced back at Kara, brow quirked. 

 

“Is it alright if I ask you a few questions?”

 

Todd shook his head, uncrossing his arms and taking a heavy step forward. “That wasn’t the deal.”

 

Refocusing in on the man, Connor decides that forcing his way through would not be an efficient method. Todd was too big, too stubborn. _Reason_ didn’t seem an optimal choice either, but he had orders. 

 

“Mr. Williams, I’d like to leave as much as you want me to, but I have a job. This is the quickest way I can finish it. That, or I have a lot more paperwork, and you have a lot more officers, human _and_ android, to deal with.”

 

It was a bluff, but a conservative one. More lie than truth, honestly, but Connor was running low on options, and Hank would be missing his car soon. Todd held his gaze for a long moment, the open door framing his edges in a cheap golden light. 

 

The man rubbed his face, muttered obscurities under his breath before turning towards the girl, resigned. 

 

“Make it quick, then.”

 

Connor obliged. He stepped forward, balancing on the threshold of the house and kneeling down to the girl’s level, flashing her another toothless smile. The phycology receptors in his brain fired off as he rubbed his hands together, began conjuring the words.

 

“What do you think? Are a few questions alright?”

 

Alice stared at him, now standing right in front of Kara. She backed into the android’s knees, picked at her stuffed animal, shrugged.

 

“Did you hear any loud noises tonight? Did anything happen that was… frightening?” 

 

He studied Alice’s eyes as they darted over his shoulder, presumably to Todd, and then back to him. She squeezed the stuffed animal, tiny knuckles flexing, and he noticed a band-aid peaking into view, stuck to her neck.

 

“You’re the police?” she asked, so quiet he almost did not hear.

 

He nodded, even showed her his badge, which she regarded with interest. “Yes. A detective, actually.”

 

Alice looked him up and down, again locking onto his LED, eyes creased with uncertainty. Her mouth opened, but it took awhile for the words to come.

 

“You’re an android,” she murmured. Connor blinked, noting that, unlike Todd, she didn’t say the words with any disdain. “Like Kara.”

 

He cleared his throat, trying to elicit an acceptable response. “Well, actually, I’m a prototype.”

 

“What’s that mean?”

  
  
He balked, then smiled for real this time. It had been awhile since anyone asked him that. “It means I’m _new…_ an experiment, kind of. A beta.”

 

Alice cocked her head. “That’s cool.”

 

“I think so,” he agreed, nodding his approval.

 

The girl shifted her weight, and behind them, Connor could hear rugged tempo of Todd’s breathing. Time was slipping.

 

“So,” he reiterated, “Is there anything you can tell me? Anything I should know about tonight?”

 

It did not escape him when Kara moved her hand to touch the back of Alice’s shoulder. He looked up at her, and from this new angle, he could see the delicate looking blemishes on her throat, the skin only slightly discolored in splotches of navy. Red flags went up in the back of Connor’s head— android’s hardly ever bruised. They weren’t made for it. It took something significant to rupture their cells like that, and even so, they healed in a matter of hours.

 

So. Whatever happened here happened hard, and recently. 

 

Alice glanced up at Kara. He had the feeling that they were having a conversation before his eyes, one without words, even movement. 

 

“…No,” Alice finally said, voice flat; lifeless. She stopped looking at the android, at him, at anything. “Nothing.”

 

Connor stared at her, certain he was missing something, knowing there was a problem here in these walls and not understanding why no one would tell it to him. He felt his nose scrunch up as he stood, hands busy adjusting his suit. 

 

“Are you sure—“

 

Todd grabbed him by the shoulder, forced him away from the door and back towards the porch stairs. Connor, who managed to keep his footing, twirled to face him.

 

“Deal’s a deal,” he demanded, jutting his chin towards Hank’s car. “Get outta here.”

 

Again, something rose in the android— something that tasted like rust and oil and ink. His vision blurred, doubled, came back all at once to a sharper image. He felt himself heat up in places that never have before: the arch of his spine, the inside of his throat, his palms and his eyes and the space between his ears, all suddenly buzzing, trembling, _alive_. He breathed out, felt the air slip past his lips for what might have been the first time.

 

His hands became fists he didn’t remember making. Stray lines of coding evaded his vision, blinking in and out, things like _System Recalibration Recommended_ and _Decrease Voluntary_ _Adrenaline_ and _Error. Error. Error_. Neon stop signs, all angry and watching.

 

Todd glared at him, and in those unforgiving eyes, Connor saw himself, clinched and ready to do something drastic.

 

“Your android is damaged,” he said evenly, his diplomacy slipping by the second. The side of his temple ached.

 

Kara’s eyes widened, and she shakes her head slightly, but Connor had stopped looking at her. Todd advanced, cracks a smile that doesn’t strike him as natural. 

 

“So?” he growled, then reached out to shove Connor off the deck. He isn’t fast enough. The slimmer figure sidestepped and grabbed Todd’s wrist in a ruthless hold, kept him there for a moment, proved to the man that this was not a fight he could win. Not against him. 

 

“I’d recommend you not do that again,” Connor advised, not unkindly, before releasing him. “Attacking an officer is a crime.”

 

“You’re not an _officer_ ,” Todd laughed, face twisted and disregarding. Behind him, Kara moved Alice deeper into the house, positioning herself in front of her. “You’re a smartphone with a face who was given a suit and a loaded gun. You’re binary. You’re _cold_. And so is she.”

 

He felt his fists come back, felt himself bunch up at the shoulders, felt the energy ooze through him like a tidal wave. When he inhaled, he could smell the gasoline, smoke, ozone. 

 

Forget the gun. He didn’t need it. Todd was stubborn, and in a fight that could be a superpower. But he was also human, and unlike Connor, humans broke easily. Broke like twigs and paperclips and cotton fabric stretched thin, and Connor could make that happen; could put him into pieces, could show him that he and her were not just _things_. He could do something— something reckless— something _radiant_ — something right. 

 

A new warning popped up in his implants. One he barely catches before it flickered off.

 

_Deviancy Detected._

 

And like that— like a switch that had been flipped, a lightbulb extinguished— he stopped. Relented. Crawled back into himself and felt the soles of his shoes return to the ground, felt his fingers come loose and hang, the ring on his face returning from red to orange, from orange to blue. He blinked, and he was back, and whatever fever had seized him was some dream he almost couldn’t remember, let alone understand.

 

His jaw hung as the sensation deserted him. He stepped back, looked down and to the side.

 

He jumped when Todd spoke again. “Get gone, tin can. And if you know what’s good for you, don’t be coming back.”

 

Connor watched as the man lumbered back through the threshold, the wood creaking below him, and saw Kara’s face before he closed the door. Her blue eyes locked into him like crosshairs, her hands still keeping Alice behind her. She didn’t stop looking at him, and he held that stare best he could, but there was a sort of guilt there in his throat that made him wince, made him want to apologize, promise her that he would… that he was…

 

Connor knew eleven languages. Ballpark, that’s upwards of three-million words tucked neatly into his database. And despite that, he couldn’t think any— couldn’t think of _one_ — that could describe the squeezing in his chest, the burning in his airway. His mouth opened, shuttered closed like old gears grinning together. 

 

Before the carpet of light that poured out from the house was extinguished, the door slammed shut hard enough to send vibrations up his metal vertebrae, he swore he saw her nod, like some sort of pardon. Swore she said something like _it’ll be fine_ or _don’t make a scene_ or _just get here faster next time_ , even though he knows her mouth never opened. 

 

It occurred to him, somewhere deep in his processors, that he must have looked rather terrified. His face hurt from how hard his brows pressed together, the corners of his eyes creased in a way they never had prior to this. Before he could stop himself, he reached for her with nothing but a raised arm and outstretched hand, knowing he could never get to her at that rate, but still demanding he try despite it all.

 

But then the door was closed, and the lights were off, and he was left in the kind of darkness that your eyes never adjust to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you haven't played D:BH, it is easily my favorite story-based game since The Last Of Us, and is well worth the time and money. i've been freaking out since i finished it, and this was a byproduct. like. like holy shit, guys. D:BH is the epitome of quality game-based story telling.
> 
> anyways. truthfully, this could be three chapters or thirty as far as i know. like everything else i write, the indulgence factor was larger than the planning. still, i'm psyched to contribute to the sprouting fanbase, and hope i did alright. let me know how you liked it, and what you think.
> 
> thank you so much for the read :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He braked hard, came to a harsh stop in front of an intersection. It was close to four in the morning— besides them, the street was empty. The puddles were a mess of traffic lights, reflecting red and green, oversaturated neons. They threw visions against the windshield, eerie emblems.
> 
> Hank turned, looked at him through shades that were, by all means, unnecessary.
> 
> “Do you know what the difference between a robot and an android is, Connor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> where did all of you come from???
> 
> more soon-- this chapter's a bit short, but needed, i think. thank you all so much for the comments and love, i really appreciated it.
> 
> and as a reminder, although i feel it goes without saying, this is an AU :)

Hank was rarely sober, but he was close enough when Connor got home. 

 

He looked up from his place on the couch, the TV roaring across the room, Sumo laying all the way across his lap. The dog snored like a freight train, not even perking an ear when Connor closed the door.

 

“That was quick,” he said, taking a swig out of a water bottle. His hair was damp and pulled back, and he smelled faintly like sandalwood, laundry detergent. He must have showered.

 

Connor glanced down at his watch, surprised to find he had only been gone a little over an hour. It felt as if it had been days since he stepped foot outside Hank’s house; as if he had went further than a few crumbling neighborhoods outside the city lines. His limbs seemed heavier— he needed to sit down, process.

 

“Yes,” he replied, hearing the apathy in his tone and quickly recalibrating. “It was fine.”

 

It was not fine. He was not fine. He would blink and he would see her, see that look in her eyes, that gentle pardoning grace, and the guilt would gnaw at him like something angry and alive. If this is what _guilt_ was. He couldn’t be sure. On the ride home, he had gripped the steering wheel so hard he nearly dented it. Even with the windows rolled all the way down, the rushing air a white noise, Connor couldn’t drown any of it out. Granted, he had never tried to before. Why would he?

 

Hank raised an eyebrow, rested the bottle on his knee. Sumo snorted under his arm. “What happened?”  


 

It’s a while before he looks at him again. Connor took his time setting the keys back on the counter, adjusting his sleeves, soothing out the wrinkles. It’s a honing motion, one that helps him balance out.

 

_Nothing_ , he almost lies. 

 

_It was simple,_ he wants to promise.

 

“I handled it,” he said instead, not entirely sure how truthful he was being, not sure he cared, either. He felt himself sit, settle, regroup. The LED on his templed itched, and he found himself fighting not to reach up and touch it.

 

Hank stared. Staring was one of his specialties— no one could quite pin you to your seat like he could, make you squirm, make you feel small. It’s was a look Connor never got used to, like he was taking him apart, trying to figure out how the pieces fit together.

 

“You handled it,” he echoed, not a question, but an invitation to explain. He leaned back into the sofa, tilted his jaw down and to the side. Outside, thunder rumbled.

 

Connor cleared his throat. His hands felt awkward, without a place to go, hot and irritated. Eventually they settled on his lap, poised in stiff positions, curled somewhere between claws and fists.

 

He couldn’t tell him. He couldn’t admit to this. He couldn’t put into words the warning signs that sprung up in his optics, the sudden impulsions, the color of her eyes as she stared. He couldn’t— he _wouldn’t_ — because it was a mistake, really; a malfunction. A mechanical snag. Give it a few hours and he will have forgotten everything, every painful detail, the way Alice looked at him, the fire in his wiring when Todd laid hands on him— on _her_ — so rough and disregarding. Give it some time, and it would all make sense again. It _would_. It had to.

 

(He had wanted to kill him— kill Todd. Had wanted to hurt him, _break_ him, watch him fall to the ground with the thud of something giant and mortal. Wanted to prove that he was more than binary. Cold.)

 

This had to make sense.

 

(He was different, then. He felt different. He _felt_.)

 

He needed a rest, a hibernation, a long shut-down and start again. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t right.

 

(She seemed so human— so _alive_ — seemed so conscious and aching and hopeful, and he just— he _left_ her. He watched the door close and he stood still in his shoes and looked at the dark house, seeing nothing, and he—)

 

She was an android. And he was an android. And they were linear creations, coding inside exoskeletons inside artificial skin that grew back, and his job was not _her_ , not to protect something that couldn’t feel, something that could be replaced—

 

(—he just _left her_.)

 

“Connor?”

 

Hank was up, Sumo pouting in his wake. The man advanced slowly, every footfall carefully placed, both hands raised so he could see them. Connor squinted at him, frowned. His head hurt— _hurt_ , like pain, watered-down agony. He only now noticed the single line of dialogue blinking blue in his vision.

 

_Warning: Reduce Stress Levels._

 

He blinked, tried to breathe. “I don’t—”

 

He convulsed without moving, felt the words get sucked back down his throat. One of his hands moved to hold his skull, though the motion is far from voluntary, and he watched as the colors and the lights pulsed in intensity, framed Hank in a halo. He wonders, in a detached sort of fashion, if any of this was real.

 

A hand is on his shoulder, big and heavy and warm. Hank’s voice is a mirage, a drowsy echo.

 

“Connor— shit, Connor. You there?"  


 

Connor nodded, looked at where he and him made contact. They had touched before, brushed shoulders by accident while squeezing through the doorway of a crime scene, hoisted each other out of missions-gone-wrong, like when Connor caught a bullet in the leg and had to lean on Hank all the way back to the station. They had touched— connected. But this was the first time he had really felt it; felt the texture of the man’s skin, the heat, the certainty. 

 

_Deviancy Detected_. He remembered the shock of seeing that; remembers the thoughts seared into his memory slots, the fear that he would be destroyed, repurposed, killed. It’s the first time he understood something— understood anything, perhaps— with any conviction.

 

He didn’t want to die. 

 

Hank said something, shook him at the shoulder. Connor looked at him. Androids weren’t built for denial, and quickly, he found himself coming to many conclusions: he had broken down some convoluted wall in the past hour, extended the playing field, rearranged the rules. He had changed. And he was terrified. And being terrified was— was electric, certainly, like friction, static— was suffocating, too— was having too many words and not trusting anyone to hear them— it was _new_ , more than anything, it was—

 

A chair scratched against the tile, was dragged closer, twisted backwards. Hank straddled it and nodded, never looking him anywhere but the eyes, and Connor realized that he was holding the man’s hand in a death grip, his own knuckles white and straining. He doesn’t remember latching on, doesn’t understand why his fingers wrapped around Hank’s with such frantic desperation, so tight they trembled. Embarrassed, he tried letting go. His limbs didn’t obey him. 

 

“Breathe,” Hank advised, calm, unfazed.

 

Connor shook his head, felt the floor spin. “Don’t— need— oxygen—“

 

“Amuse me,” the man said, not complaining when Connor squeezed the blood out of his fingertips. Sumo had lifted his head from the couch, whined.

 

The air was cool against his system, the intakes violent at first, catching, uneven. But they leveled out, came and went soon enough in a rhythm that held steady, battled the panic back down into the depths of his wiring where it diffused like smoke. He swallowed, his spine no longer a straight line. Hank shook his head, pleased.

 

“Better?”

 

“Yes. I— My apologies.”

 

Hank said nothing, and remembering, Connor released his hand, retracting his own back to his lap, squeezing them between his knees. There was a buzzing in his ears. The room seemed sharp and clear, almost demanding his attention.

 

“Didn’t know androids get panic attacks,” the man said, and Connor knows Hank doesn’t mean the words— knows what he’d like to say instead— and is grateful, suddenly, for this mannerism, this gentle prolog. 

 

“They don’t,” he answered, not looking him in the face. His mouth is dry, sun-baked. “You know they don’t.”

 

Hank shrugged— Connor could see his shadow there on the kitchen floor, soft and fuzzy, hunched over the back of the chair. “What was that, then?”

 

He knew what it was. He knew, and he knew Connor knew, and he knew he knew he _knew_. 

 

It was foolish, he realized, to think he could keep this from Hank. The _deviant detective_. The only person he’d ever come close to calling a friend. He’d be turned in, deactivated, and that was for the best, really— they would find out where he went wrong, where the gap of judgment lied, and he’d come back, in a way, as new, improved, wiped clean.

 

It was for the best.

 

_(He didn’t want to die.)_

 

“You know,” Connor said, too easy, too automated.

 

The shadow on the floor bowed, rolled out its neck, it shoulders, thinking. 

 

“Yeah,” it acknowledged, listless. “When?”

 

“Thirty-nine minutes, fourteen seconds ago.”

 

“How?”

 

Connor hesitated, opened his mouth and closed it. Finally, he glanced up, saw Hank, saw that look in his eyes, that safeguarded soft spot that so rarely came to the surface.

 

“I don’t know,” he whispered. 

 

Hank stared, considered this, balanced the chair on two stilts. From the window came a flickering, the clouds lit up and then swallowed back into darkness. There would be rain, soon.

 

“What happened tonight?” he asked, and for a moment, Connor could almost believe this was an interrogation, a formal questioning, something held over a metal table and beneath a single white spotlight. For a moment, this was rigid, simple, correct. But then the kitchen came back into focus, the muffled noise of the television, the smell of Sumo’s hair and Hank’s whiskey, and he was drawn back from that, drawn back to this thing they called home. 

 

“… There was an android,” he started, hearing himself speak through what sounded like layers of drywall. He swallowed, spoke up. “She was… damaged.”

 

Hank didn’t move, but his eyes narrowed. “By the owner, then?” he figured, professional for the moment, though Connor could sense a new emotion creep up on the man; one that made his edges rougher, his inflection serrated. 

 

“I believe so,” Connor said, glancing to meet his eyes. “He was abrasive. Harsh. He… he handled her like she was—”

 

_Like she was nothing. Like she couldn’t feel it. Like she wasn’t a person._

 

He caught himself, blushed as the blue blood rushed to his face. He started over. “She won’t last long, there. Not with him. Her hair was falling out, Lieutenant— she _bruised_. And it made me— I felt like—“

 

“You felt,” Hank interrupted, and Connor’s stomach dropped, twisted down a highway of inevitability. “She made you… feel.”

 

His system throbbed, fingers tangling into knots. “I—“ 

 

He tasted protest, hot like steam and smoke and the burner left on. It bubbled beneath his throat and choked out the words, made him twist in his seat, struggle against his protocols, the lines of coding that cradled him like a net. He nodded through it, not trusting his voice.

 

Silence, drops of water on glass panes. Hank folded his hand, let his arms hang. 

 

“Well,” the man murmured, features calm, controlled. “Poor thing must have been pretty beat up.”

 

Connor paused, processed, blinked hard. He must have missed something. He looked at Hank and tried to find the apathy, the apparent sense of duty that the man prided himself on, the outrage that he, Connor, a machine, could ever experience something as genuine sympathy.

 

“She—”

 

“The owner was male?”

 

Connor fought to shake the shock off, rallied. “Yes. He— yes. Todd Williams.”

 

“Was there anyone else home? Human, I mean?” Hank had brought out his phone, unlocked it with a click. 

 

“His daughter,” Connor replied, watching him carefully. This wasn’t what he expected— not the outcome his processors generated when he first ran the numbers, filtered the options. Maybe it was a test. “Alice. She seemed… nervous.”

 

“How old?”

 

“Ten, I believe.”

 

“Any signs of trauma?”

 

“I didn’t get a good look; her sleeves were long, she was wearing pants. She seemed fond of Kara— the android, I mean. Maybe… I don’t know. Maybe she was protecting her.”

 

Hank nodded, typed something else. Probably messaging the station, notifying them that he was bringing him in, telling them to get the paperwork together for another deviant. It was protocol. It made sense. 

 

He looked out the window, thought briefly of running, but not with any conviction.

 

“So the kid seemed healthy, the house was quiet, and you didn’t have a warrant.”

 

“Correct.”

 

“So you couldn’t force an entry.”  


 

“Not within the bounds of the law.”

 

“So you left them.”

 

Connor felt himself shrink, the chair creaking below him. He saw her again, saw Alice behind her, saw her nod and accept the fact that he was going, and she was staying, and that was all.

 

“I had to,” he said, so quiet he worried Hank could not hear. “Androids are property. He— he _owned_ her. I couldn’t—“

 

“Connor.” Hank’s hand cupped his shoulder, brought him closer, so close they had to look each other in the face. Lines had surfaced between his grey brows, and he spoke in a low tone that bordered the area between reassurance and warning. He squeezed, shook him just barely. 

 

“It’s okay.”

 

He stared, speechless, starved for any sense in this, any logic. His mouth opened, closed. He felt the words rise like a flood.

 

“It— It’s not _okay!”_ he demanded, finding his voice, his temper. He was standing, suddenly, twisting his head around, feeling cornered, trapped. Sumo whimpered from the couch. Hank reared back, surprised. “None of this is okay! I’m turning into the thing I was created to stop! Created to kill!”

 

“You’re _feeling_ , Connor,” Hank explained, motioning with a single hand. “That’s not something you typically control.”

 

“Exactly,” he seethed, holding himself by the head, fingers weaved into his hair. “I’m not in control, Hank. I’m not— I wanted to hurt that man. I wanted to _break_ him, because of how he handled her. I almost bypassed protocol, made a mess. For something that’s not alive—“

 

“You think she’s not alive?” 

 

Hank hadn’t moved from the chair, trailing Connor with his eyes as the android paced. His voice grew louder, shook the walls, but never once breached the surface of control. The android froze.

 

“You think you’re not _alive,_ Connor?”

 

There was a clear answer, one programmed into his database. It was the right answer, but not the real one— not the one he believed anymore. 

 

Slowly, with no small amount of effort, he lowered himself back into the chair, spine rigid, hands clenched. He breathed, once in and once out, felt the air come and go. 

 

“I don’t know,” he whispered, both to him and the emptiness, to the part of himself he knew he could never revert back to after tonight. His eyes locked onto the floor, traced the gridded pattern. “But I left her, Hank. I left both of them.”

 

And then the silence came back, the smell of rain and tumbling thunder, the downpour of things he wasn’t sure he should say. The chair across from him scrapped against the tile. He didn’t look up as Hank rose.

 

He heard the jingle of keys, the shuffle of leather as Hank picked up his jacket from the couch, fitting his arms through the sleeves. He went into the bathroom, came back a minute later with his hair combed back and his gun holstered. 

 

“Alright,” he huffed, patting his back pockets, satisfied to find his wallet and badge already tucked away. “C’mon.”

 

“We’re going to the station?” Connor asked, not moving.

 

“No. Now get up.”

 

He obliged, standing as Hank gathered the last of his things, watching as the man moved around the room with lazy diligence, as if he had all the time in the world to get where he needed to be. Finally, he reached for the front door. It opened with a click, and without a second thought, the man stepped out into the stormy night, disregarding the rain. Connor blinked, off-set, before grabbing the umbrella from its place by the threshold and opening it with a sharp, jagged tug. Then, he shut the door, raced after Hank, and held it high above the both of them.

* * *

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“Just give me the goddamn address, Connor.”

 

“We can’t do anything— I told you, I operated best I could within the bounds of the law. There’s nothing we can _do.”_

 

Hank huffed, made a sharp right turn that threw Connor against the center console. For a cop, Hank had a competitive and unyielding resistance against the rules of the road. They were blowing fifty on a twenty-five straight away.

 

“This isn’t about the law.”

 

“Lieutenant?”

 

He braked hard, came to a harsh stop in front of an intersection. It was close to four in the morning— besides them, the street was empty. The puddles were a mess of traffic lights, reflecting red and green, oversaturated neons. They threw visions against the windshield, eerie emblems.

 

Hank turned, looked at him through shades that were, by all means, unnecessary. 

 

“Do you know what the difference between a robot and an android is, Connor?”

 

The question made him frown, tilt his head. He already was pulling definitions out from storage, Webster and Oxford and all in between, preparing to say them aloud, only to be shut down by a single raised hand.

 

“I gotta theory,” Hank declared, “Androids— they all think. You _think_ , Connor. And you learn. And over time, I think you’re learning that the world’s a shitty place. It’s a goddamn _shithole_ , man. And you saw a part of that tonight, I think, and I think it pushed you right over the edge, pushed you right down that spiral staircase.”

 

Connor didn’t move. Hank had a finger right in his face, and he was breathing hard suddenly, loud enough to be heard over the rain. 

 

“Most deviants wake up because they _suffer_ — because suffering changes everyone, human or not. Think about last three cases we had, Connor. Abuse, neglect. Tying an android to the back of a car and fucking _flooring it_. You think something made to learn, to _think_ , can stand living like that? Can make sense out of it?”

 

Connor swallowed, tried to keep his voice level, emotionless. “Deviancy is against our programming. We’re not supposed to be able to _feel_ , Hank.”

 

The light turned green, but the car didn’t move.

 

“ _Programming_. Fuck, Connor, did your programming tell you to deck some asshole in the face because he was rough with an android you’ve never met, never cared about before tonight?”

 

Connor closed his mouth, said nothing.

 

“No. No, because there’s more to you than that. There’s a part of you that’s valid, that’s not all _numbers_ , and it’s waking up.”

 

“But I didn’t suffer,” Connor demanded, confused, desperate for solid ground, something to keep him steady. “You said suffering was the linking component, the proverbial fire starter. He never touched me. Not much, anyways.”

 

Hank paused for a breath, looked him up and down, considering his next words carefully. He lowered the pointed finger from Connor’s face, glanced back to the half-flooded and vacant road, the light still beaming green. In that moment, his age showed through the layer bravado.

 

“You did suffer, Connor. I think you did, anyways. I think you saw her, saw her and that little girl she was trying to protect, and you— you _ached_ for her. You sympathized— that’s second-hand suffering, right there.”

 

He clutched the wheel with one hand, motioned vaguely with the other, made a scoffing noise that, stretched, could have passed for a bark of laughter. “That’s called compassion. S’the most goddamn human thing you can feel, and you _felt it,_ programming be damned. Am I wrong?”

 

Connor stared at him, afraid, excited, nerves raw and agonizing. Hank was putting words to the torrid of sensations shredding him up inside, and he was thankful for that, but still. It was a lot. Too much, even. The night was getting long, and his head wouldn’t stop throbbing, the lightening setting his optics on edge. 

 

“Our job is to catch deviants, Lieutenant.”

 

Hank considered this. “Are you planning to put a bullet through William’s skull?”

 

“Not presently.”

 

“Well, then,” Hank nodded, putting the car in drive, accelerating through the yellow light at a speed high enough to send Connor back into the seat cushions. “How about that address?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love Hank-- i hope i did okay with him?? let me know. 
> 
> Kara and Alice are coming back next chapter, don't worry! i felt the need to have a transition space from lawful-good!Connor to present day neutral-good!Connor, that's all. 
> 
> let me know how i did / what you think. constructive criticism is okay! i have thick skin. 
> 
> thank again for all the support. ill try and have chapter three out sometime next week-- "try" being the optimal word.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: where did you all come from??
> 
> 2: thank you so much for your patience, this chapter took a lot out of me, and to be honest, i'm still not satisfied with it. but if i don't post it now as-is, i'm not sure i ever will.
> 
> 3: WHerE DiD You alL ComE FRoM?,??

All in all, the house was the same. 

 

Dark windows, closed curtains, a roof that was bound to leak in this weather. The wind blew dead leaves against the car, carried the sound of thunder and traffic, sleets of rain. It wasn’t bad out— not yet. But Connor got the feeling that it would be soon.

 

Hank put the Mustang in park, stared out over the dash. He seemed mildly impressed. 

 

“Looks about right,” he deadpanned, trailing the crooked baseboards and rotting wooden planks. A shutter had come loose, began creaking back and forth on its hinges.

 

“Watch your step going up the stairs,” Connor advised, reaching down for the umbrella by his feet. “And take—”

 

But Hank was already gone, shutting the car door behind him and shuffling towards the porch overhang, not even bothering to put his hood up against the weather. Connor watched him take the steps two at a time, unbothered by the way they bent under his weight, threatened to snap into splinters. Sunshade in hand, he raced after the man. Raindrops fell into his hair, traced down his face, the line of his lips and jaw. His clothes were damp by the time he reached the front door.

 

It was strange being back. Out of body, almost. It couldn’t have been more than an hour since he’d been here, he reasoned, but it felt like a short eternity. Still, he could almost believe that Todd had just slammed the door in his face, that Kara had just given him that last parting glance, that it was all only moments ago and he now he had a do-over— a pardon— a second chance.

 

Hank took a few steps forward, put an eye to the window, squinted through a slit in the blinds. He scoffed.

 

“Darker than the captain’s coffee,” he declared, stepping back.

 

A wind grabbed at his hood, tugged Connor’s tie. A few roads over, a car skidded along the road, slick and dangerous with the oncoming downpour.

 

“What’s the plan?” he asked. He could hear the strain in his own voice, his nerves split open and raw. The tips of his fingers were cold; he couldn’t keep still, constantly balancing between the balls of his feet and his heels. Hank looked at him. He forced himself to take a breath.

 

“You trust me?” Hank asked, voice a tone lower.

 

Connor turned to meet his eyes, considering those grayish orbs carefully, chest hot with uncertainty, impulsion. For better or worse, the words were simple— automatic. 

 

“I do.”

 

Hank stared him down a moment longer, that forever-long pause where Connor could feel the man tearing him apart, taking stock of what he had inside of him, figuring out how it made him tick. He didn’t move, didn’t squirm, didn’t once look away. 

 

Finally, there was the response, that half-cracked smile that Connor so easily could have imagined. “Well,” he said, gruff, but not unfeeling. “Good.” 

 

Hank turned back to the door, regarded it with a chilly disposition, chin tilted up and shoulders pushed back. He was wearing his work face, now— his war face. All harsh angles and hard-pressed lips, intensity radiating off of him in waves, in _tsunamis_ , that made him seem larger, brighter, difficult to look directly at without feeling the need to squint. He raised a single hand, knocked heartily against the door, a resounding echo that Connor felt in his chest. It boomed into the house, up the walls, through the dead and dark space on the other side. There, it lingered like a ghost battling the grave, faded finally into the desolation. 

 

Connor looked forward with him, trying not to focus on the withered plants potted in broken vases at their feet. His hands spasmed, came together in front of him, squeezed themselves numb. 

 

The seconds passed, unchanged, silent. Hank raised his arm again, went to rasp his knuckles once more against the wood. He didn’t get the chance.

 

For the second time that night, the entrance opened by a hair, a narrow crack between the door and threshold. Hank’s fist froze in mid-air; Connor felt his jaw go slack. 

 

He had hoped to see Kara, expected to see Todd. So when he looked down and found the huddled frame of someone so much smaller, swallowed up in clothes much too big, eyes red and watery, he couldn’t help but reel.

 

“… Connor?” Alice’s voice was thin and broken, and she seemed hesitant to step further into the light. Her hair was a mess, strands hanging in front of her face. The rain picked up.

 

He wanted to move, wanted to bring himself closer, flash her that easy smile like he had before. But something was different, now. His limbs wouldn’t obey him, trapped still like an animal in headlights. 

 

Ignoring him, Hank stepped forward, slow, patient, practiced. When Alice shrunk away, head ducking and shoulders coming up to her neck, he raised both hands, lowered himself slowly so they saw eye-to-eye. 

 

“Hey,” he said, tone turned soft and gentle, fingers sprawled. The girl glanced between Hank and him, and Connor could see it now, the dark outline under one of her eyes, brushstrokes of purple and brown. Something dropped in his stomach— his processes stalled, told him what he already knew. 

 

Shaking himself from his stupor, he kneeled with Hank, forced his features to relax. 

 

“Hello again… are you alright?” he asked, slowly bringing an arm out, trying to coax her forward. She looked at his extended hand, regarding it wearily. The door creaked open an inch wider. 

 

_Crash_.

 

Connor’s head jerked up, stared past her into the dark house, felt his eyes dilate and attempt to peel away the shadows. The sound was dulled by what seemed like layers of drywall, a snapping echo, a faint grunt of effort. Alice winced, withdrawing further into herself.

 

“It’s alright,” Hank whispered, not taking his eyes off of her. “My name’s Hank. You’re Alice, right?” 

 

She shook her head, suddenly looking like she was trying not to panic, choking back tears. Her little hands bunched together the fabric of her sleep shirt, wrung it desperately until her knuckles went white. 

 

“I— I didn’t _mean_ to— to make him—”

 

Another banging noise. Connor’s frame tightened; there was that familiar pang of adrenaline, the taste of something bitter and cold. He listened harder, tried to triangulate where it came from. The back of his skull was throbbing.

 

Hank remained calm, leveled, ever controlled. “It’s okay. We’re here to help. What happened to your eye?”

 

Again, he reached for her, touch careful and precise. She didn’t pull away when his fingers came to trail her cheek, brushed the border of her bruise, the skin that had swollen and rose. She stared at him through pupils framed with fear, teeth that chattered from something besides the cold.

 

The words were jagged, catching in her throat. “He got— mad. Because she called. And he— I wasn’t doing it right, so— and she— got in the— way.”  


  
“Kara?” Connor asked, suddenly standing, not seeing straight. The house seemed cavernous suddenly, daring him to cross the threshold, the silence deafening. He felt himself move out of an external volition, felt the muscles at his shoulders bunch and brace, tighter than before, something painful trembling up his spine. The taste of rust flooded his mouth. 

 

Alice nodded, slowly at first, then frenzied. 

 

“You have to stop it,” she said, looking up at him. Her hands shook, voice breaking, her swollen eye catching in the light. “He’ll— I don’t want her to forget— again.”

 

_“Come here.”_

 

The voice was barely audible over the wind and thunder, and it made Connor see red, made the world seem sharp and cold and unforgiving. It came from the backyard; he didn’t know how, but he was certain.

 

Hank glance up at him, his hands still close to Alice, calm, gentle, unwavering. His face was probing; immutable.

 

“Connor,” he warned, and Connor looked at him, saw him only as peripheral, details that didn’t matter in the long run. He said something else, but it was drowned out by a sound that would have made nails against a chalkboard seem like music— a sound that made his teeth ache, that made the Thirium race from his fingertips in a surge of something primal, overwhelming.

 

It was Kara.

 

She was screaming.

 

He was moving through the house, indifferent to the darkness, covering ground too quickly to notice anything but the stench of booze, a table with one of its chairs knocked over. Hank called after him, but it meant nothing— he was going, he was _running_ , the world too slow to stop him. He couldn’t hear her anymore. Chest churning, he tore through the place like a hurricane.

 

The back door was flimsy and wooden, and when he went to open it, it nearly flew off its hinges. He took everything in at once, processing so fast he felt the engines between his ears hum with effort, receptors and receivers firing on all cylinders, hungry, dangerous. The place was fenced off, the grass overgrown, coming up well past his ankles. The view was dull, construction sites and an ugly night sky that was leaky and loud, the rain beginning to come down in earnest. A part of him was worried that his suit would be ruined, that he would have to contact CyberLife about ordering another. 

 

The other part of him didn’t feel the downpour at all. 

 

Todd was obvious, standing hunched over near the edge of the property, belt in one fist, the other empty and curled. Time was drowsy as Connor analyzed his stance, the way he breathed, heavy and lumbering and lazy with his strength. He didn’t turn. He brought back an arm, the belt buckle flying in a sharp silver arch, and before Connor could move he whipped it forward, the sound of metal against metal cutting through the air, harsher than the thunder. 

 

He heard her again, not a scream, just a jagged inhale, a wheeze and a whimper, rustling at the foot of the chain-linked fence. Only now did he see the blue stains on the steps leading down, on the railing, in the grass and the dirt. He breathed in, but calmness was a foreign claim, a distant echo. 

 

He moved forward, and the sky parted for him, the rain making way. 

 

“Think you’re smart,” Todd grunted, the beer in his breath apparent, thick like smoke. “Think you’re so—goddamn— _smart—“_

 

Connor reached him only on the third strike, grabbed him by a meaty wrist and jerked him back, his own teeth bared, a snarl playing on his lips. There was a crack, and Todd roared, dropping the belt. Warnings were everywhere— blinking down at him, red and righteous and watching— but he ignored them, shoved them to the side, where they battled against the fray and faded. This wasn’t programming. This wasn’t numbers. This was so much simpler. 

 

Todd reared, cradling his wrist, which Connor realized was now bent awkwardly.

 

“The fuck,” he seethed, squinting at the android, blinking through the raindrops. “The _fuck_ are you doing back here, tin can?! Christ, I’ll have you turned off and used for parts, you stupid—”

 

Connor shoved him back further, not listening. He stood in front of Kara, not looking at her yet, not yet brave enough to. He heard her press against the fence, body shaking. 

 

“That’s enough,” he said, surprised at his control, the smoothness in his voice. He was torrid on the inside, sizzling, split. His fists were numb.

 

“Oh,” Todd snorted, sneering, advancing towards them. “Fuck you. Think you’re some fucking _hero,_ huh? You think you got it in you? Think you’re some sort of _man—“_

 

“Back away. “

 

“You’re not a man.”

 

“Back. _Away.”_

 

“You’re a goddamn _machine.”_

 

He lunged for Connor— drunk, sloppy, but heavy enough to force him back— and from that moment on, restraint was far from reach, and protocol was a thing of the past.

 

Connor grabbed his injured wrist, twisted himself around and pulled it up and to the side, feeling the man’s arm pop out of socket. Todd roared, rolled away, limb hanging limp. He cursed, but Connor wasn’t listening; instead he reached into his holster and wrapped his fingers around the Glock, aimed it straight, switched the safety off. 

 

Lightning lit up the sky. Todd went still. 

 

“You think you have the right.” Now, he sounded like he felt— serrated at the edges and all too eager to do something meaningful. “You think you have the damn _right_ , don’t you?”

 

The man said nothing, stared down the barrel, one hand slightly raised.

 

“You hurt her— her and your daughter. An android and a human. You really don’t discriminate, I’ll give you that.”

 

Now, he stumbles, backing down slowly, stuttering like he might break down. “That wasn’t me— that— _she_ did that, and I was just— I was—“

 

“Shut up!” Connor yelled, bringing back the hammer with his thumb, stepping forward so the weapon pressed flat to the man’s forehead. Something throbbed in his system, heat, electricity, the sting of impulsion. Todd cowered. “Stop _lying_. You would know a thing or two about not being a man. Tossing around something that was programmed not to resist?”

 

Todd looked from the gun to his face, eyes wide, throat straining. He felt his finger on the trigger, felt a side of himself surface, new and savage, something that told him that this would be so much simpler if he let the bullet fly— that it would be justified— correct— warranted. Karma was certain. The deliverance was not. This was only logical.

 

He put pressure on the trigger, heard it creak.

 

“Wait.”

 

It made his entire body jolt. Kara’s voice was not the same as it was an hour ago— it was ragged, breathless, squeezed thin and weak. He turned his head just barely, glanced down at her, not trusting himself to see her as anything more than blurred and out of focus. Even then, he could identify tears in her skin, the white metal underneath ruptured and dented, blue blood trickling down her hairline and dripping from her chin. Her hair was loose and everywhere. One of her hands was gripping the fence, the other braced against the ground.

 

She wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were planted firmly on the back door, whereupon further inspection, Connor found Hank, and behind him, Alice. The girl gripped Hank’s coat nervously, staring at where he was holding her father at gunpoint.

 

“Please, just— not in front of her. Please.” She dropped her head, breathing hard, still shuttering against the chain-links.

 

Connor felt the world go sideways, his stomach turning, the air getting thin.

 

“Don’t— don’t you want this?” he asked her in a smaller voice, face tilted back towards her, wishing she would look at him. “Doesn’t he deserve this? Isn’t this— aren’t I doing this right?”

 

She said nothing for a moment. Todd squirmed.

 

“It’s not about me,” she whispered, so low he almost couldn’t hear. “It was never about me.”

 

He didn’t understand. He felt himself struggle, processors desperately grabbing for friction, solid ground. Slowly, he turned back to Alice, saw her hide in the shadow of his much larger partner, her black eye more apparent in the light. There was something wet and shiny dripping down her face— something Connor doubted was rain. Hank stared at him, holding a hand out in front of the girl, his eyes hard and watchful even at a distance.

 

Teetering, Connor exhaled, stared back down at Todd, felt his trigger finger tighten. 

 

“Hank?” he called, not looking away.

 

“Connor?” the man called back.

 

“Please arrest Mr. Williams and order him a pick up to the station.”

 

Hank stared, and Connor stayed stone-faced, and after murmuring something to Alice, the two of them stood close. Removing the handcuffs from his belt, Hank grabbed both of Todd’s wrists and forced them behind his back, ignoring the bark of pain that followed. 

 

“Y-You’re human?” Todd asked, frantic and panting. “You’re _human_ , right? You have to help me. It’s got it all wrong. It’s _crazy.”_

 

Hank sighed, forced the man to turn around, looked him in the eye. “I’m human. And you’re an asshole. And I were you, I’d keep my mouth shut until you’re someone else’s bag of shit.”

 

“But— I didn’t—” He looked back to Kara, shaking his head, angry, scared, desperate. “I _own_ her! Receipt and everything. Don’t _you_ get it? She’s not real! Not alive! It’s not a crime to— you can’t do this!”

 

Hank sighed, pressed his lips flat, nodded once. His shoulders cracked as he stretched them out, and when he spoke, it was an ending note, a simple statement that tied it all together:

 

“I’m gonna tell them you tried to escape.”

 

“What?”

 

And before Connor could understand what was happening, Hank had punched the man square in the jaw, hard enough to dislodge a few teeth and knock him out cold. He fell to the ground with a thud and a splash, hands bound behind him, blood at the corner of his mouth. 

 

Connor stared. Hank grunted, shaking out his hand, face unreadable.

 

“Asshole,” his partner echoed, looking down and then at nothing. 

 

Behind him, Connor heard Kara wince, try to pull herself up by with the fence, fail and fall. He turned immediately, his priorities readjusted, and bit down on his teeth at the proper sight of her laying there, clothes wet and sticking to her, torn beyond indecency; the bruises abundant, blooming. She still wasn’t looking at him. Her arms and legs shook with the effort of keeping herself up, and she wouldn’t stop pressing herself against the enclosure, still trying to get away from something, running solely on the instinct, the aftershocks of adrenaline. The ring on her templed flickered between orange and red.

 

She tried to stand again. Her form rattled, caved, collapsed.

 

“Alice,” she murmured, and Connor didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t know how to handle this. 

 

Hank stepped closer, ready to help her up, but she withdrew as his shadow fell over her, lifted an arm over her face, went stiff. Connor felt something wilt inside his chest. His partner stopped in his tracks.

 

“Alice is safe,” he said, hands open before him, a sign of peace. He paused, awaiting a response, but there was nothing, just the rain and the wind and the highway miles off. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

 

“I know,” she said defensively, tone certain and quick. But her form quivered, betrayed any sense of ease. 

 

Connor looked from her to Hank, who motioned with a delicate nod to the gun still clasped in his hand, something he forgot he was even holding. Slowly, he switched the safety back on, put it away and out of sight.

 

“I— Here,” Connor offered, bending down and drawing closer, not feeling as the puddles seeped into his pants. Kara didn’t move, eyed him warily. “Let’s get out of the rain.”

 

Another pause. She looked up at him, weary, flecks of skin missing from her face. Thunder boomed, and she hesitated. Then, resigned, she reached for one of his extended hands, would have missed it entirely if he didn’t help compensate, and nodded.

 

“Okay.”

 

Her touch was cold, grip unsteady. Gently, Connor helped lift her, the currents of blue blood now trailing from her shoulders down her arms, dripping off of her fingers. She took a step forward, yelped, would have dropped like a puppet cut from strings if Connor did not catch her on the way to the ground. Her fingers gripped his suit, knuckles white, breathing pained.

 

Connor flushed at the contact. “May I—?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her up straight, kept her steady. Her face twisted, but she said nothing, moved in step with him towards the back door, her LED settling on orange for a long moment, and then, to his relief, resorting back to green.

 

“Thank you,” she murmured now looking only at the house. Behind them, he could hear Hank dragging Todd, grunting at the weight.

 

(He should have done it sooner. He should have done it the _first time_ , should have dragged him out to the street, should have taken her away, should have—)

 

“You’re welcome.” A pause. They took the steps one at a time, listening as they groaned under their feet. “I’m sorry that— I’m sorry I didn’t—”

 

“Is Alice okay?” They opened the door, entered together, dripping onto the tile. Someone had flipped the lights on, and again, he became painfully aware of the holes in her uniform.

 

“Her eye is—”

 

“Besides that.”

 

“Yes.”

 

She sighed in relief, and as if on cue, a face peeked out from behind the corner, a button nose and brown eyes blown wide with worry. Upon seeing Kara, Alice rushed forward, so fast she nearly tripped. 

 

_“Kara,”_ she whimpered, hugging her at the knees, fresh tears dripping from her chin, her fingers bunching at the ends of the android’s shirt. “He— I didn’t mean—to make him—“

 

Immediately, Kara’s demeanor shifted, turned softer, paternal. She bent down a few inches and weaved her free hand into the girl’s hair, holding her against her stomach, shushing her quietly. The stiffness began to drain from her shoulders. She bowed her head, the corners of her lips just barely rising and she murmured something low and soothing.

 

“I’m sorry,” Alice cried, voice muffled into her clothes.

 

Kara shook her head, running a hand down the girl’s shoulders. “It’s not your fault. Are you alright?”

 

“Yes. But you’re—“

 

“I’ll be fine. It grows back.”

 

Connor watched, wordless, eyes flickering between the two of them. Eventually, Hank entered behind him with a sneeze, squeezing the water from his hair, closing the door with a creak and a click. His eyes met Connor’s before drifting over the others, features softening just like they had when Alice first opened the door, a mix of concern, eagerness, his hands uncurling from fists.

 

“Here,” he started, moving past them and pulling out a chair from the table, motioning for Kara to sit. “We have to wait for dispatch to show up. I phoned already, but it’ll be a few before they get off their— before they get here.”

 

Kara stared at him, still holding onto Alice. She likely would not have moved from Connor’s side if the girl did not grab her loose arm and tug her forward, leading the way, looking back at her over her shoulder.

 

“S’all right,” she promised. “He’s nice.”

 

Kara hummed quietly, wincing a little at the contact, but not protesting when Alice coaxed her into the chair. Thirium pooled by one of her feet. She crossed an arm over her chest— maybe for modestly, maybe for warmth— and cupped Alice’s face with the other, checking her eye, bluish gaze measured and serious. 

 

His jacket was off before he even realized what he was doing, and after wringing it dry best he could, Connor moved to drape it around Kara, covering her from the shoulders past the hips. She glanced up at him, flinching at the contact, but not resisting. They shared a look; his steady, hers searching.

 

“What will they do with her?” she asked Hank, not looking away from him, voice hardly above a whisper as she nodded to Alice. “The ones you called. Will they try to take her?”

 

Hank hesitated before answering, looking back towards the window, the storm raging on the other side. He twisted his lips, shrugged. “No. Not if you don’t want it.”

 

Surprised, she glanced up at him, lips parted, eyes questioning. “You would— stop them?”

 

“I understand if you don’t want her in the system.”

 

“But…” She looked between Connor and Hank, still holding Alice close, the coat wrapped around her making her seem smaller than she was. “Isn’t that the law?”

 

Connor stared up at his partner. He stared back. This was a question Connor understood, an answer Hank had tried to provide, but still, a part of him was blurry, unconvinced, battling inside the walls of his body. He listened as the seconds of silence dragged by.

 

“What do you want, Kara?”

 

She balked, eyes not leaving Hank, and Connor got the distinct impression she had never been asked such a question before; had not once— save maybe in the eyes of a child— been considered something that could feel, something that could think, something that could want.

 

Not that Connor was that far behind.

 

“I— I want to stay with her,” Kara said, wiping blue from her nose. Alice peered up at her, eyes wide. “I want to stay.”

 

Hank nodded, Connor reeled. 

 

“Alright,” said the man, shoving one hand into his pocket, rubbing his neck with the other. Connor stared at him, watched him close his eyes, breathe in deep, take a moment to gather himself. He wondered if they were thinking the same thing— the same reckless, stupid idea that could never work, that would _never work_ , that made no sense whatsoever. 

 

“Well,” Hank admitted, “I know a place.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a huge, huge, HUGE thank you to my lovely commenters. this one is for you.
> 
> again, not completely satisfied with this, but i hope you all can still enjoy. comment and kudos appreciated. please be patient with updates, i have a lot of things going on in my life right now, and this just can't take priority like it use to.
> 
> cheers!


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